Chapter 14 – Face Of
Secrets at the buzze r
Christmas Day
Amelia
I roll over in bed, blinking my eyes and trying to clear my vision. It's morning, and snow falls gently outside my window. So peaceful and calming.
It reminds me of Christmas with Grandma when I was a little girl. Dad always made sure we had what we needed, even though he was never there in the ways that mattered. Yet Grandma always made Christmas feel magical, as if nothing were ever missing.
She gave everyone a little something special for Christmas. Days beforehand, we'd make dozens of cookies, cakes, and candies. Grandma would also set aside small gifts and trinkets to go with them. I wasn't spoiled at Christmas, but it was wonderful growing up with Grandma.
I grab my phone to check the time. Bash's guests should start showing up soon, and I promised to help him get the turkey in the oven.
Dragging myself up, I head to the ensuite bathroom to get ready for the day. The warm water from the shower is soothing, but I can't linger if I want to get downstairs in time to help. After toweling off, I brush my teeth and apply light makeup before pulling on my clothes.
I trot downstairs to find Bash wrestling with a giant turkey in the kitchen sink.
"Hey! Good morning, Firebird," Bash calls over the splash of the water. "Did you sleep okay?"
Tying an apron around my waist and rolling up my sleeves, I join him in his valiant fight.
"Yeah," I sigh. "Better than I have in a while. It was… uh… nice knowing I wasn't alone in the house."
He stops and looks at me intently over his shoulder, his eyes soft. "I'm glad, Amelia."
The awkward weight shifts in his grip, drawing his attention back to it .
“Wow, that's some gobbler. You feeding an army?” I laugh.
“If I can manage to get this bird rinsed and in the oven, we are.”
I smile at his use of we , as if we're entertaining his family together. The thought makes me happy. I slip into a little daydream of what it might be like to be Bash's wife, hosting Christmas here at our cabin.
I'm so caught up in my delicious thoughts that I miss what Bash says next.
“Hmmm?” I ask.
Suddenly, the oven-bound menace drops from our hands and into the sink, splashing me with cold water. I yelp and jump back.
“I asked you to hold the turkey steady while I got the pan in place,” Bash chuckles, enjoying himself far too much for someone elbow-deep in poultry chaos.
“Oh,” I squeak. “Sorry.”
“It's okay, sweetheart. Where did your thoughts go?”
A blush rises in my cheeks. I shrug, avoiding his eyes, wishing I could blame my flushed face on something other than the fantasy I'd just been lost in.
Bash grins, clearly amused, and reaches for a clean dishtowel. His fingers brush my skin as he slowly wipes the water from my face. His touch is light, and I can't help noticing how close we are. I fight the urge to lean into him. The space between us feels too small, too charged.
Lost in his blue eyes, I catch a flicker of something that neither of us is ready to admit.
The line we're hesitant to cross. My breath hitches, a low pull stirring in my stomach.
Just the way he looks at me sets my core on fire.
The towel drops from his grasp, unnoticed on the floor, while his fingers graze my cheek in a fleeting caress.
The ghost of his touch lingers long after his hand falls away.
This brief, tender "what-if" moment with him weaves healing through my fragile heart and kindles a faint hope, a hope that someday, maybe, he could be mine.
His mouth parts slightly, like he's about to speak, but his gaze dips to my lips.
Does he want to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss him?
We lean into each other, breaths quickening. Bash's mouth descends upon me with the barest whisper of a kiss, and for a heartbeat, nothing else exists. The turkey lies forgotten at the bottom of the sink. Getting it into the oven is no longer a priority .
Then, the front door swings open, carrying snow and icy wind inside. A stunning older woman, elegant even in her winter layers, steps in, shaking the snow from her coat. I can only assume it's Bash's mom, as she has the same icy blue eyes.
“Bash,” she calls, “we're here.”
We jerk apart, scrambling to regain composure and not look guilty. I tug at my sweater and plaster a smile on.
A silver-haired man follows close behind her.
He could be no one other than Bash's dad, an older version of him with the same charming smile, striking good looks, and that darn dimple.
He carries several bags as the steady stream of friends and family keeps coming.
Laughter and conversation overlap as everyone carries wrapped packages and covered dishes brimming with food.
The room erupts into cheerful chaos as it fills, gifts piling up around the tree while platters and trays now fill the breakfast bar.
I watch as Bash's mom steps into the kitchen and pulls him into a tight hug. The others gather around, greeting him with backslaps and handshakes. For a moment, I feel out of place. But then, Bash's mom turns her attention to me.
“And who's this beauty, Bash? ”
He glances at me and reaches out, drawing me to his side.
“This is my friend Amelia,” he replies with a bright smile, making my mouth water at that bite-worthy dimple.
“Amelia,” he continues, “this is my mom and dad, Lois and Ray Duchesne.”
I smile and nod politely as he continues introducing me to everyone.
It's a blur of names and faces that I know I won't remember.
I'm so nervous about meeting these people who are so integral to him, and I hope to make a good impression.
It's then that I realize how much Bash means to me. I want to be accepted into his orbit.
“Aren't you the star figure skater? Olympic hopeful?” Bash's cousin Rudy blurts, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Amelia Ki—”
“Amelia Smith,” I cut in, more sharply than I intend.
The room quiets a bit.
Rudy pauses, narrowing his eyes slightly. “I could've sworn—”
“I'm Gord Smith's daughter.”
I throw the name out there like a shield, and it works, eliciting the desired effect .
Suddenly, the room is in a whirlwind of excitement.
“Did she say Gord Smith?” someone gasps.
“ The Gord Smith?” another squeals.
“I have one of his rookie cards. Do you think you could get it autographed for me?”
“Bash, is this one of your stunts?”
“No way!” A guy nearly fumbles a plate of deviled eggs as he's pulling them out of the fridge.
“He's the reason I started playing hockey.”
“My aunt swears he once signed her chest in a bar in Calgary.”
Oh, boy. Yeah, that sounds like dear ol' dad.
“I didn't know he had a daughter.” The comments just keep coming.
“I named my dog after him back in the day,” one guy laughs. “I swear! Gordie! Ha! He was a great dog.”
“My dad still talks about Lord Gord,” adds one man, eyes wide.
The room buzzes with chatter. People swap stats and memories of watching his most iconic moments. Someone mentions dorm room posters, and another recalls a mom so obsessed she once had a full-blown shrine to him in her teenage bedroom .
Bash's dad starts telling a story from early in my father's career, how he saw Gord take a puck to the face and skate right back out to finish the game.
They're not paying attention to me anymore. No one is questioning my name. That's precisely my intent.
I slip back a few steps, unnoticed. My smile fades as I turn toward the stairs and make my getaway.
I'll probably regret this later, but it's too late now. I'm already easing the bedroom door closed behind me, glad to be out of the spotlight that always follows the mention of my dad's name. At least it's not the kind of reaction I would've gotten if my husband's name had come up.
Bash
Laughing, I stand here among my friends and family while everyone geeks out over Amelia's dad.
Right there with them, my dad is regaling everyone with the story of the time Gord Smith took a puck to the face and went right back out on the ice, refusing to quit and helping lead his team to victory.
“The PR team denied it,” he states excitedly. “Because it could've led to a lawsuit, I'm sure. But his jaw had to be broken. By the game's end, his face was so swollen he was unrecognizable. ”
“I remember that night, Chaz,” my uncle Ryan agrees. “When the final buzzer sounded, he just lay right there, pressing his face on the ice, trying to ease the pain and swelling.”
“Man, he's a legend,” Dad sighs nostalgically.
The noise level drops, and my cousin pulls me aside.
“Bash, you do know who your girlfriend is, don't you?”
“She's not my girlfriend,” I roll my eyes and laugh. “She's just a friend.”
“Okay, beside the point,” Rudy pushes. “You know who she is, right?”
“Yes, I know she's a famous figure skater and headed for the Olympics,” I confirm proudly. “I also know she was hurt at the last Olympics and had to withdraw. I know her.”
“So, you know she's married.”
“Yes, I know she's married, and it's complicated,” I snap irritably.
“Her last name isn't Smith, Bash, it's Kingston,” he announces dramatically, eyeing me warily.
“Well, that does make sense. Her maiden name is Smith, since her dad is Gord Smith,” I admit, nodding a few ti mes. “So, Kingston is her married name. Hmm. Well, she skates under Amelia Smith.”
“ She's Amelia Smith Kingston,” Rudy presses, continuing to eye me like I'm missing an important detail. “Jaxson Kingston's wife.”
“Jaxson Kingston?” I stop short, staggering back against the wall.
Rudy's eyes widen. “You really didn't know… did you?”
“Defenseman for the Thunder Bay Titans. That Jaxson Kingston? ” I ask, forcing the words out.
Rudy nods and starts clicking on his phone. Finding what he's looking for, he brings up a webpage for Amelia, showing a photo of her and Jaxson. The caption reads: Amelia Smith Kingston and her husband, Jaxson.
Feeling nauseous, I bend over, placing my hands on my knees and gulp deep breaths.
“Is Kingston screwing with you?”
“I… I don't know…” I shake my head, trying to suppress the roar in my ears.
“Does she know who you are?”
“I didn't think so,” I huff, my heart racing at the implications. “We met at a bar, and we've kept our personal lives separate. I haven't told her much about myself , and she hasn't shared much either—aside from a few intimate details about her marriage.”
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. Knowing who her husband is casts everything in a completely different light. Every smile, every text, each moment spent together.
Was any of it real?
“Let's look at this rationally, Bash,” Rudy suggests, always the voice of reason. “Are you being scammed or set up?”
I replay the last few months with Amelia in my head, searching for something I might've missed. She never struck me as capable of this kind of deception. Unlike most women I've met, nothing about her ever felt performative, no angles, no agendas. With her, everything seemed honest and real.
But doubt creeps in, and I'm questioning everything.
Has Jaxson used Amelia to toy with me? What are their motives?
“What reason would there be to set me up, Rudy?” I ask aloud.
“Don't you have a morality clause in your contract?” he asks sharply. “How much damage would an all eged affair with the wife of your hockey rival cause your reputation?”
“That's not just bad, that could be career-ending.”
“How long have you and she been going out in public together?" he challenges. “Are you discreet?”
“We don't go out in public much," I explain.
"I have to protect myself, and I wanted her to enjoy being with me—not the hockey superstar.
You know how the girls are these days. Once they figure out who I am, it becomes all about my money and bragging rights.
That's why, when we do go out, I stick to subtle disguises or go to private spots.
Besides, we're just friends, Rudy! Nothing more.”
"You actually believe that, as famous as you are, she didn't know who you were right off the bat and played the long game? Come on, Bash, you're not stupid."
Now I begin to feel foolish. All the time Amelia and I spent together, we played texting games. It can't be. She seemed so real.
[Flashback]
Amelia: Let's play a game. LOL
Me: Sure. What kind of game?
Amelia: Twenty questions to get to know each other. I'll start .
Do you believe in soulmates?
Me: I don't know. Maybe. I kinda want to believe in that stuff, but I've never experienced it myself.
What about you?
Amelia: I thought I did, but now I don't know. I guess I'm confused. I once thought my husband was my soulmate, but I don't think I believe that anymore.
Me: Y?
Amelia: How could your soulmate do that to you?
[End of Flashback]
Our conversations always seemed guileless, genuinely her own, with a soul that was quietly broken and fragile.
“The press would eat this up," Rudy warns, bringing me back to the present. “They love to spin a story. It wouldn't matter if it were true or not, as long as it sold the rags!”
He's right. Of course he is.
“That kind of scandal would ruin me,” I mutter.
Anger replaces nausea. Amelia was supposed to be my friend.
She's known all along who I am. How could she not? She colluded with Jaxson to try to destroy me .
“Where did she go?” I growl, furiously scanning the room for her bright red sweater.
“I saw her sneak upstairs after she tossed out her father's name to deflect from her own.”
My eyes narrow, and my heart turns stone cold.
There it is. The angle. The part she never let me see. She's guilty. There’s always been an agenda.
Here, I thought I was falling—
No. I scoff sharply, fists clenching at my sides as I force the thought away. I refuse to let myself be played by another lying viper wrapped in an innocent face.
I race up the stairs to confront Amelia Kingston . If she and Jaxson think their manipulations are going to sabotage my career, they've got another thing coming. I'm going to send Mrs. Kingston packing, literally and figuratively.